Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

‘He was paying a fourteen-year-old girl for sex!’

‘Didn’t know she was fourteen though, did he?’

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, ‘Does it matter ?’

‘See — there you go again, black or white. It pays to have people in your debt, Logan, especially people who...’ She stopped, peering out into the night. There was a figure walking down Marischal Street, dressed in a featureless ankle-length raincoat buttoned all the way up to the neck. Bald as a coot, clutching an umbrella, the black surface shrouded in mist as the rain hurled itself towards the ground. Detective Inspector Insch.

‘Hoy, hoy,’ said Steel, ‘it’s Uncle Fester.’

DI Insch marched slowly across the road and around the car to Logan’s side. Something congealed in Logan’s innards as he looked up into the inspector’s impassive face. Insch’s voice was like a graveyard. ‘It’s Constable Maitland,’ he said, and suddenly Logan could hear each and every drop of rain. ‘He’s dead.’

Flames reached up to the sky, devouring wood and plastic, paper and flesh. The blaze crackled and sparked in the rainy night — the downpour doing nothing to quench its hunger. He’d put way too much petrol through the letterbox for that. His very own makeshift crematorium.

The location was perfect: a little winding road down by the river in the south of the city. High stone walls on one side — keeping the lowlife out of some sort of hotel grounds — scattered, detached houses on the other. Secluded enough to stop the alarm being raised too soon, and with plenty of cover for him to hide in and watch the place burn. And even if someone did raise the alarm, the fire engines were busy elsewhere.

He knew he shouldn’t be here. Not so soon after the other fire. He knew he would get in trouble for this one, but he just couldn’t help himself. Standing in the shadows, on the other side of the road, he grimaced, pounding away at his erection as the upstairs windows exploded outwards in a shower of glass.

God, this was beautiful.

The screaming had lasted for ten whole minutes. Four petrol bombs in through the bedroom windows. Someone had even braved the inferno in the hallway, hammering frantically against the front door, not knowing he’d screwed it shut, just like the one round the back. He bit his bottom lip, imagining their flesh crackling and popping in the heat. Flames raging downstairs, flames raging upstairs. Nowhere to run. All they could do was die. He grunted and shuddered... squeezing tighter, trying to make it last, but it was too late. He threw back his head and moaned in ecstasy as the roof finally gave way, sending an eruption of orange and white sparks spiralling up into the night. Then the fire brigade arrived — charging about with their ladders and their hoses, but it was far too late for the family of four charring away beneath the burning rubble.

He really shouldn’t have burned the house; he was bound to get in trouble.

But right now, he just didn’t care.

Seven forty-five, Friday morning, tired, bleary and hung-over. It hadn’t been a good night for Logan; DI Steel had sent him home early, where he’d made friends with a bottle of twelve-year-old single malt whisky. Getting drunk and maudlin and thoroughly depressed. One minute PC Maitland was lying there in his persistent vegetative state, and the next he was gone. DI Insch had told Logan not to worry: it was dreadful, but these things happened. It wasn’t his fault. It would all blow over. And when the inspector had gone, marching back up the road in the rain, DI Steel told him that Insch was talking bollocks. This was a perfect opportunity for the slimy bastards to crawl out of the woodwork and stab him in the back.

The summons from Inspector Napier had been waiting for him when he got into work first thing this morning.

So here he was, sitting outside Professional Standards, feeling sick, stomach churning away as he waited for Napier to call him into the Office of Doom. Right on cue the inspector stuck his pointy face around the door and beckoned Logan inside. This time the room was crowded. In addition to Logan, Napier and the silent, unnamed inspector in the corner, Big Gary was sitting in one of the uncomfortable visitors’ chairs, his huge frame making the plastic buckle alarmingly. He looked up and nodded as Logan entered. This was it then. He was in real trouble this time.

‘Sergeant McRae,’ said Napier, settling down behind his pristine desk. ‘As you can see, I have asked your Federation representative to attend this meeting.’ He threw a cold smile in Big Gary’s direction. ‘But before we start I’d just like to say how saddened we all are at the news of PC Maitland’s untimely death. He was a good officer and will be greatly missed by his colleagues and friends. Our thoughts and prayers go out to his wife and...’ Napier peered down at a sheet of paper on his desktop. ‘Daughter.’

And then Logan had to go through the bungled raid again, while Napier nodded gravely and Big Gary took notes. ‘Of course,’ said Napier when Logan had finished, ‘you realize that we have been lucky with the timing of this.’ He held up a copy of that morning’s Press and Journal . The headline FATAL FIRE KILLS FOUR! was stretched across the front page above a photo of a ruined house, still burning in the darkness with fire engines clustered outside. ‘This arson story has far more public appeal. Also, the papers didn’t get wind of Constable Maitland’s untimely death until after their second editions had run. Naturally we can expect “prominent citizens” like Councillor Marshall...’ the name came out sounding like a disease from Napier’s lips, ‘to make their feelings known on the subject.’

Logan suppressed a groan. That pompous, slimy wee pervert would have a field day.

‘Of course, the internal enquiry now has to take into account the fact that an officer died during the operation you organized, resourced and led,’ said Napier, probably loving every minute of this. ‘If you are found to have been negligent, you can expect a reduction in rank and possible expulsion from the force. Criminal charges cannot be ruled out.’

Big Gary sat forward in his beleaguered plastic seat and frowned. ‘I think it’s a wee bit premature to be talking about criminal charges, don’t you? Sergeant McRae’s no’ been found guilty of anything.’ The silent inspector in the corner twitched.

Napier held up his hands. ‘Of course, of course. I apologize. Your Federation representative is quite correct: innocent until proven guilty and so forth.’ He stood and opened the door. ‘A date for the enquiry will be set later today. Please feel free to drop in should you wish to discuss things further.’

Interview room number six was vacant, so Big Gary commandeered it, dragging Logan in for a pep talk. Screw Napier. Logan hadn’t done anything wrong, had he? No. So there was nothing to worry about: the internal enquiry would come back negative, they’d all have a big touchy-feely lessons-learned exercise, and everyone would get on with their lives. Everyone, thought Logan, except for Constable Maitland.

When Big Gary was gone, Logan slumped back in his chair and scowled at the ceiling tiles. Bloody Napier and his bloody witch hunt, as if he didn’t already feel guilty enough about Maitland being dead! Any excuse to belittle, or threaten, or condescend and there was Napier, ready to stick the knife in and twist. And where the hell did he get off telling Logan to make sure Steel wasn’t screwed over by the press? Bloody Steel and her bloody sarcasm and her bloody ‘everything’s not black and white’ like he was some sort of school kid! Protect her from the press? It’d be Logan getting a roasting off that smug, sanctimonious, child-molesting pervert Marshall, not DI Steel. No, she had him eating out of the palm of her nicotine-stained hand... Fine, you know what: two could play at that game. Logan yanked his phone out, dialled Control, and asked for a contact number for Councillor Andrew Marshall. It took him three minutes to get past Marshall’s personal assistant, but finally the man’s familiar voice oiled imperiously out of the phone, ‘ Is this important? I have a chamber meeting in five minutes .’